Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  Snatching me up and shoving me into the corner, Sandy bound my feet together at the ankles, then walked over to Jake and untied his right hand.

  “Wakey wakey, Jakey Jakey,” he said in a demented, child-like voice. “Daddy wants to play.”

  Pulling out his gun and knife, Sandy turned to me, held them up, and said, “Which do you think is more menacing?”

  I tried to say something but the tape prevented it.

  “You’re right,” he said. “We’ll start with the knife, then switch to the gun if we don’t get the desired results. You’re good at this, John. A real natural.”

  I looked around the room and tried to think about how I might attack him or what I could use for a weapon. There was nothing and as weak as I was, and with my hands and feet bound, I wasn’t much of a threat. Still, I had to try. I crouched there in the damp earth waiting for the best time.

  Sandy leaned over, put the knife to Jake’s throat, and began to whisper in his ear.

  Slowly, Jake moved his hand around back behind him. I slowly eased up, preparing to strike.

  Suddenly, Jake’s free hand shot up and grabbed Sandy’s wrist. I jumped, hopped, and fell as fast and as hard as I could and crashed into Sandy, knocking him away from Jake and onto the floor against the wall, landing on top of him in the process.

  One of the boards in the wall snapped and dirt came pouring in on top of us.

  As I tried to get to my feet, Jake tried to untie himself with his free hand. Neither of us were successful. Unable to stand, I felt around the dirt for the knife Sandy had dropped, but couldn’t find it.

  Pulling his knees up to his chest, he kicked me off of him with both feet and I flew halfway across the room. When he stood up, he was holding the gun. He stepped over to Jake, grabbed his free hand, and shot straight through it.

  Jake screamed so loudly the tape around his mouth couldn’t keep it in.

  Sandy then turned and moved toward me.

  When he reached me he pressed the muzzle of the gun into my forehead, the hot barrel burning my skin. I snatched back.

  “This’ll only hurt a split second,” he said. “I promise. Sorry you can’t stay and play, but it’s obvious you really don’t want to.”

  Before he could pull the trigger, the door opened, and he turned in shock to see who it was.

  No one was there. He turned and stared up through the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Suddenly Michael Jensen flew through the door and tackled Sandy, knocking him to the ground. Sitting on top of him, Jensen brought up his large hunting knife and began a frenzied attack.

  Sandy tried to bring up his gun and fire but wasn’t able. The blows were too severe.

  Jensen stabbed him for a long time—long, long after he was dead.

  Eventually, having slain the dragon, he got up and walked out of the room without saying a word.

  59

  A Pottersville tradition on election day is for the county commissioners to post the results in front of Potter State Bank.

  In the evening, the sun sinking somewhere in the unseen distance, folks gathered and waited to see not just who won but how everyone did.

  Everyone was connected to everyone else in some way, most in many.

  The following evening, the day of the primary, I pulled into the bank parking lot, got out, and joined the small crowd of onlookers. At the front of the crowd, the county commissioners somehow managed to look imminently important and truly humble as they watched as the votes were tallied and the results written on large dry-marker boards on stands constructed by inmates.

  No one seemed to notice the crime scene tape spread across the bank’s doors.

  Through the crowd I spotted Cody and Carla sitting on his tailgate in the parking lot, and I walked over to them.

  Carla stood up and hugged me as I neared. I hugged her back far more intensely than I normally did. I was happy to see her, thankful to be alive, glad I had awakened from the most recent nightmare.

  When I released her, she gently touched the bruising on my face. “What happened?”

  When she sat back down beside Cody, I said, “The monster is dead.”

  Carla gasped.

  Cody’s eyes grew wide and he looked as if he wanted to believe it were possible but just couldn’t.

  “The guy who . . .” Cody began.

  I nodded.

  “Who was it?” he asked. “Do I know him?”

  “You’ll hear all about it in a day or two,” I said. “I just wanted you to know now.”

  “And you’re sure?” he asked.

  “Positive,” I said.

  Cody’s eyes moistened and he blinked back tears. Carla took his hand.

  When I turned toward the crowd the sheriff’s race results had been posted and people were congratulating Dad—even those who didn’t vote for him. All he had won was the opportunity to run in the general election, but that was more than he thought he might get a few days ago. He looked relieved.

  After leaving the river the night before I had taken Jake to the emergency room in Panama City. Once the wound in his hand had been treated we went up to Mom’s room and spent several hours with her, during which time I told Mom how much I loved her but that Jake loved her more.

  Eventually we called Dad and he met us there. We told him what had happened and we devised a plan that would keep Jake out of jail and Dad in office. We would turn in all the money—both from the bank and the plane—and say that Jake was working undercover for the sheriff’s department. I had taken some time to think about it, to weigh what I was about to do, and decided it was the thing to do. Since then I had reexamined my motives and choices and actions and had reached the same conclusion. If Jake had hurt or killed anyone things would be different, but as it was all he did was make some stupid choices with some good intentions. He was just a boy trying to save his mother––something I could certainly understand.

  And though everyone had agreed to keep the deaths and arrests concealed until after the election, Jake, Dad, and I had told our stories to FDLE and the FBI, and it looked as if they believed us. It would be a while before everything was over, but I suspected that what we did wouldn’t just keep Jake out of jail but save his life, and might actually be the thing that won Dad reelection.

  Once the results were posted, most people slowly scattered, rushing off to pick up their kids from football, volleyball, or soccer practice, or to cook supper and eat with their families.

  Unlike usual I was in no hurry to leave. I had no place to go really, and what I was witnessing was a small-town way of life that was as valuable as it was vulnerable.

  “Congratulations,” I said to Dad when he walked up.

  “Thanks,” he said. “And thank you for what you did for Jake—and me. I really appreciate it, son.”

  I nodded.

  “Still haven’t found Jensen,” he said. “Search will intensify now. Won’t be long.”

  “He saved our lives,” I said.

  He nodded.

  We were silent a moment, him shaking the hands of the people who walked by and congratulated him.

  “You’re not gonna charge him, are you?”

  He shook his head. “There’ll be some pressure to because of how violent and excessive he was, and some’ll say I’m not charging him because you and Jake were involved, but no, I’m not. I’m calling it what it was. Self-defense.”

  I nodded. “Heard Fred dropped out of the race,” I said.

  He smiled.

  “Should make the general election a lot easier.”

  “Will.”

  “I’m looking into the disappearance of R. L. Jenkins,” I said. “Just wanted you to know.”

  “Who?”

  “The minister from Marianna Merrill saw lynched when he was little.”

  He nodded. “Didn’t figure you’d wait. I’ll help as much as I can. When the election is over . . . we’ll really dig into it . . . providing you don’t have it solved by the
n.”

  We fell quiet a moment.

  A few more people came by. He heard a few more congratulations and shook a few more hands.

  “I’ve got to get back over to the office to meet with FDLE and the FBI,” he said. “We’re going to schedule a press conference for later tonight. Wanna come?”

  I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  “Can’t blame you,” he said. “They’ll never know all you did. How relentless you were—as usual, how you put things together and figured things out that no one else would have. How you saved lives—and souls,” he added, nodding over toward Cody and Carla. “But I do. I know it all. And no dad could be more proud of his son than I am of you.”

  My eyes stung and I had to take in a deep breath to gain control of myself.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He extended his hand not as a dad but as a man shaking the hand of another man he admired and respected, and I shook it.

  As he walked away, I couldn’t remember him ever saying anything to me that meant any more than that.

  I was overwhelmed.

  Leaving the bank parking lot, I walked over to the small lakeside park next to it and sat down on one of the benches.

  Sitting there alone in the evanescent evening, I thought about all that had happened and my part in it. I thought about my friends and coworkers and whispered a prayer for Merrill again. I thought about my family and my life and I gave thanks. I thought about Mom, her dying, her death, and knew that she wouldn’t be the only one dying before she wanted to. We all would. All we could do was live while we had life in our lungs, do the best we could, enjoy the journey, walk humbly, act nobly, and be the best version of ourselves we could possibly be in any given moment.

  I thought what a fine thing it is to be alive and I was filled with hope and thought my dark night of the soul might be about to break for the dawn, but even if it wasn’t I felt somehow I would be okay.

  I found myself accepting what was instead of futilely fighting against it, embracing everything––even having to give up of Anna––and I felt peaceful.

  Later, in full evening, when everyone had gone back to their lives, back to their loved ones, I still sat alone.

  Across the way I saw Anna pull up and park next to my car.

  Searching around until she found me, she walked over without ever even glancing at the election results.

  She sat down on the bench beside me and a long moment passed before either of us spoke.

  Eventually she said, “Birth control pills make me sick. I mean really mess me up, my hormones, my . . . everything. I can’t take them.”

  I looked at her. I knew she had a reason for telling me so I waited.

  “Chris confessed to me last night that he’s been poking holes in his condoms in hopes of making me pregnant. Said he was afraid of losing me. Wanted some insurance. Something to bind me to him forever.”

  I took her hand.

  “Can you believe that?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  She turned and looked at me, studying my face. It was obvious I hadn’t given her the response she’d been expecting.

  “It was a dishonest act of desperation,” I said. “It shows cowardice and control issues and a level of obsession I wouldn’t expect from Chris, but I can certainly understand it. I wouldn’t be surprised by anything you’d inspire a man to do.”

  “Would you do it?” she asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Would you?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I said. “I wouldn’t.”

  “What’s that line about honor you’re always quoting?”

  “‘Yet this inconstancy is such . . . as thou too shalt adore . . . I could not love thee, dear, so much . . . loved I not honor more.’”

  She nodded appreciatively, gazing out over the lake.

  “Said he did it so when I found out he’d had an affair I might not leave him.”

  “Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry,” I said. And I really was.

  “What should I do?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “I left him,” she said.

  With those words my heart did something it hadn’t done in a while. It leapt.

  “I’m not going back.”

  “You’re not just acting out of anger or . . .”

  She shook her head. “I’m really not. All the things he’s done are just symptoms.”

  I nodded slowly, thinking about it, trying to contain myself.

  “We should’ve never married, never been together in the first place. I’ve only stayed out of obligation and some misguided notion of honor.”

  I nodded.

  She turned and looked at me, our longing eyes locking.

  “I want you to think about something and answer me honestly,” she said. “Don’t worry about hurting my feelings or discouraging me. I want the truth. All I have room for in my life now is truth.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Do you think there’s a man out there who can love me even though I’m carrying another man’s child?” she asked. “Even though I’m a damaged, soon-to-be-divorced, soon-to-be-single mom with bumps and bruises and baggage? I know it’d be an awful lot to ask of a man. I know it’d take someone very, very special to love me and my baby the way we deserve. And I know it won’t be easy to find such a person. I realize that. I mean . . . So all I guess I’m really asking is if . . . if you think such a person exists.”

  “I do.”

  Start INNOCENT BLOOD Now!

  The next John Jordan mystery, INNOCENT BLOOD, is available at special discounted price for a limited time. Get yours today!

  INNOCENT BLOOD Chapter 1

  In 1980 I came face to face with the Atlanta Child Murderer.

  I was twelve years old. The same age as many of his victims.

  This singular experience not only forever changed me, but actually altered the course of my life.

  But long before this seminal visit to the city of Atlanta as a child, long before this encounter with evil, I was obsessed with the monster who was littering the woods of the metro area with the broken bodies of little black boys.

  It had begun on July 21, 1979, when Edward Hope Smith went missing.

  He was last seen leaving the Greenbriar Skating Rink on Stone Street, parting ways with his girlfriend at the intersection.

  His body was discovered seven days later in a wooded area in a ravine just off Niskey Lake Road by a woman looking for cans. He had been shot with a .22 in the upper back. The area, surrounded by loblolly pines, white oaks, an occasional dogwood, and creeping kudzu vines, was a popular spot for people to dump their trash.

  It was said that by the time his body was discovered, a vine from a nearby tree had already wrapped itself around the boy’s lifeless neck.

  My obsession had continued through the disappearance and death of Timothy Hill, a thirteen-year-old boy and friend of an earlier victim, Jo-Jo Bell. Timothy went missing on March 13, 1981, and was last seen in the area of Lawson Street and Sells Avenue. His body was found seventeen days later on March 30th––the same day Ronald Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, Jr.––by a boater in the Chattahoochee River near Cochran Road. His partially submerged body was some twenty-five feet from the bank. The cause of death was determined to be asphyxia by suffocation.

  There were other victims, of course, but they weren’t children and I wasn’t nearly as obsessed with them.

  Children disappearing, dying, being discarded––some seventeen so far––held my developing mind hostage, seized my attention, captured my preteen imagination like nothing before ever had. And it was only partially because of the cruel and capricious nature of the killings, the fragility and vulnerability of childhood, and the fact that my dad, the sheriff of the small Florida Panhandle town where we lived, had a friend on the task force that was so ineffectually working the case. It was mostly because of how each and every little boy looked like and reminded me of my
best friend in all the world, Merrill Monroe.

  My fateful confrontation with the killer took place during the final weekend in November 1980, surrounded by gaudy gold Christmas decorations and to the soundtrack of traditional Christmas carols played through cheap speakers, the thin, electronic noises of video games, the wooden pop of pinball machines, and the desultory sounds of the city Sherman had burned to the ground.

  Our parents had brought us to Atlanta, on what would be our final family vacation, to stay in the Omni hotel, to ice skate and shop, to play in the arcade and ride the gigantic escalator to the carnival in the clouds, to experience the spectacle of a hotel that could hold more people than lived in our entire little town.

  While Nancy, Jake, and I skated and played, Mom drank and Christmas shopped, and Dad watched TV in the room when he wasn’t meeting with his friend on the task force.

  The Omni fit its name––all or of all things––for the mammoth structure seemed to my twelve-year-old self to contain all things. Whether shooting up several stories in seconds in the elevator or riding the enormous escalator to the fair or looking out the window of our room at the tiny figures ice skating below, the hotel held so very many larger-than-life and unexpected attractions, and yet retained an open and airy quality of hushed tones and lost sounds into which it seemed everything else in the world could easily fit.

  Outside the hotel, fear and palpable racial tensions pulsed through the city. Inside, everyone whose job it was to cater to our comfort tried to pretend there was no world outside this one, but an uneasy anxiety coiled beneath the surface betrayed them––not unlike the one I sensed just behind the strained civility displayed by my parents.

  It was during the afternoon of our second day that I saw him, the monster dressed like a man. And not just any man, a soft, slightly effeminate, light-skinned black man in a long-sleeved, large-collared silk shirt with thick wire-framed glasses and a big afro––only part of which was visible beneath a Braves baseball cap.

  Nancy was teaching Jake to ice skate in the large round rink right in the center of the hotel. I was in the video game arcade trying to beat my best score on Space Invaders.